How a Difficult Pregnancy Shaped My Outlook: A Maternal Health Story

“When we decide to have a kid, we’re adopting,” I said, eyes darting up from my phone screen to see my husband’s reaction.

“Uh, yeah,” he said.  “I don’t blame you.”

We had just watched a TikTok created by a girl whose sister, a healthy and normal young woman, had a baby and passed away shortly after giving birth due to rare complications with bleeding.

Fortunately for my husband and I, we were not quite at the stage in our lives where having a baby was a realistic move yet.  We had plenty of time to think about what we wanted to do (or not think about it, and live in blissful ignorance).

A couple years later though, and we were newly married, about to make a down payment on a house, settling into our careers, and thinking about becoming a family of three.

The harsh reality that adoption is a difficult, drawn-out, and expensive process dawned on us, and the temptation that I could get pregnant and have a child for free, right now overtook us.  After a few months of trying, two pink lines made their appearance on my pee-on-a-stick test and we were overjoyed at the thought of our future family.

My first positive pregnancy test, followed by several more to confirm… because we couldn’t believe it was real!

I had moments of doubt, where I’d come to my husband and cry in fear that in less than one year, I’d be doing that thing I said I’d never do, that my body would look and feel so different.  I was met with reassurance that complications are rare and that I was extremely low-risk, a mantra I adopted and started to tell myself in moments of anxiety.

At roughly five weeks into my pregnancy, I discovered the lovely truth that the term “morning sickness” is a misnomer, and that for the next ten weeks or so I’d be sick from the moment I woke up until night, every day.  

I was lucky that I never actually threw up, but God, I felt like I had to pretty much 24/7.  My most distinct memories took place at the grocery store while walking by the meat aisle.  The growing fetus inside me had granted me the awesome new superpower of super-smell.  I swore I could actually detect the aroma of blood and entrails just by looking at the prepackaged beef, which sent me flying through the store, out the door, through the parking lot and into my car where I could dry-heave into a plastic shopping bag in peace.

When I’d return home and open the door into my kitchen, the smell of the dishwasher running (a combo of dish soap, stale food, and steam) would waft up my nose, which quickly became a new source of disgust.  Unfortunately, my non-stop nausea kept me mostly bedridden for weeks.  I suddenly had a new appreciation for women and the sacrifices they make, and could barely wrap my mind around the notion that not only do women get through pregnancy, but after giving birth often decide to do it all over again.

After a few weeks of this I found myself resenting my pregnancy.  I was still excited to have a baby, but it was costing me so much independence and health.  My only solace was that this was temporary (although for many moms who suffer from Hyperemesis Gravidarum, this is their reality for the entire extent of pregnancy-- a close friend went through this and I can only sympathize with the suffering of these women).

Me hating life at roughly eight weeks pregnant.

My second trimester was a welcome change.  My little baby bump-- which, let’s face it, was mostly gas and bloat at this point-- was visible to the world, and strangers could tell I was pregnant without even asking.  This garnered a lot of attention, which I relished every minute of.

The most difficult moments in this stage were those doctor’s appointments where I had to get lab work done.  With an intense lifelong phobia of needles, I dreaded having my blood drawn.  My worst moment was when I brought my husband along with me for genetic testing, as an emotional support.  Unfortunately, his “support” sometimes goes a little too far and teeters on the edge of “enabling.”  

It took roughly three hours that day for me to finally allow the phlebotomist to stick me.  When I left the room and walked through the lobby where my husband sat, and he later told me that yes, everyone in the waiting room could hear me sobbing.

Towards the end of this trimester I had to go back for my Glucose Tolerance Test, to find out if I was at risk for Gestational Diabetes.  I cringed at the thought of more bloodwork, but found reassurance in the assumption that this would be my last blood test for the remainder of my pregnancy.

When I arrived they checked my fasting blood sugar with a quick blood draw.  Then, with a timer set for five minutes, I had to down that horrible, terrible, syrupy, sugary drink.  It tasted like a too-sweet melted orange popsicle, and on an empty stomach, was difficult to get down.

Then, I waited for two hours before having a second blood-draw to see where my blood sugar had ascended to after consuming the beverage.

I was so proud of myself for completing the tests with no tears and without getting myself too worked up.  It felt like I had truly conquered my fear, and my prize was that I wouldn’t have to do it again for a very long time.

That evening I received notification from MyChart that my test results had been returned.  Tears flooded my eyes and by the time I had turned over in bed to tell my husband, he knew.  My blood sugar had skyrocketed, and I had to return for a second, more intensive test.

This time, I needed to get poked four times in one day.  The beverage I had to drink was ultra-concentrated, containing double the sugar of the last one but in the same volume of liquid.  This one was more like thin corn syrup, and the sensation it gave me brought me right back to my first trimester woes.

I impatiently awaited my results that night, refreshing my phone ten times a minute until MyChart finally gave me the alert that some information had been received.

I closed my eyes and tapped on the results to open them, thinking that maybe if I didn’t actually look at them, I’d be better off.  I peeked them open, the bluish screen illuminating my face…

And that was that.  I had Gestational Diabetes.

Now, this is by no means the worst thing that can happen to a pregnant woman.  Gestational Diabetes is manageable and is only linked to poor outcomes when left untreated.  Luckily for me, despite now being “high risk” in pregnancy, I was reassured by doctors that I was in great shape to have a healthy delivery.

I did grieve the sense of health I once had, the carefree nature of my life and the confidence I had in my body to perform the way it should.  It now felt like there was a stain on my health record, which would follow me throughout life because it did indeed hold some implications even outside of pregnancy.  For the remainder of my life, I’d be at higher risk for developing Type 2 Diabetes, and would have a higher likelihood of passing that onto my children.

My focus, though, was to control it as much as I could in my pregnancy.  I succumbed to pricking my fingers four times daily so I could keep tabs on my blood sugar, keeping a diary of how my body reacted to certain foods.  After a few weeks of this I developed panic attacks over the recurring presence of needles, which had become part of my everyday life.

I was then prescribed a Dexcom glucose sensor (which is like a patch that sticks to your arm, and gives you constant blood sugar readings for ten days, connected to an app on your phone).  This was a tool that helped with my need phobia, but then made it possible to see my levels all day, every day.  In many ways, this was extremely helpful and gave me greater insight as to how I was reacting to food and other stressors.  In other ways, it became a source of obsession, and as an OCD-sufferer, I was highly susceptible.

Shortly after my diagnosis, taking a walk to try and offset the carbs I ate when my husband requested Chinese takeout for his birthday.

Throughout my pregnancy, my (male) OBGYN had been off-putting to me, giving off cocky vibes each time he spoke.  It wasn’t until after my GD diagnosis, though, that he became truly insufferable.

Since I was high risk, I was supposed to receive additional testing in my third trimester to ensure that my baby was coping with the stress on my body.  With Gestational Diabetes, babies are at higher risk for birth defects, preterm birth, high birth weight, placental insufficiency (and calcified placenta, which basically means the placenta “dies” prematurely and stops sustaining the fetus), and stillbirth.

Due to my diabetes being so well-managed, my OBGYN thought it was unnecessary to perform additional tests.  When I asked, he refused to offer me the opportunity to check my son’s size via growth scan, which is standard practice for diabetic pregnancies.

I felt entirely dismissed and in my final weeks of pregnancy, terrified that something could happen to my son due to negligence.  

Fortunately for my sanity, I spontaneously went into labor at exactly 38 weeks gestation.  I’ll be sharing the details in a much better written Birth Story post, but the end result is the same-- I delivered a healthy boy at 6lbs 9oz, through the help of the on-call OBGYN (not my doctor, thank goodness).

The delivering doctor approached me mid-labor, stating that she had called my OB’s office to request the second half of my chart.  “Half of it is missing,” she said.  “According to these records you haven’t had any scans in your entire third trimester.”

“Nope,” I corrected her.  “That’s the whole thing.  He didn’t give me any additional scans.”

She was shocked, which confirmed my suspicions that my own doctor was in fact negligent.  This was validating, because I was right all along, and scary, because the outcome could have been devastating.

After my son was born, she also informed me that my placenta was quite small and that given my status as diabetic, my baby was on the small side, too.  This was noted in my chart, but since he was otherwise healthy, no additional testing needed to be done.  I still wonder to this day if my placenta was beginning to fail, and if by some miracle my body knew my son would have a better chance outside than inside at that point.

In the following weeks, the postpartum recovery hit me like a truck.  The pain from my second-degree tear was excruciating, even with alternating doses of Tylenol and Ibuprofen round the clock.  Walking, sitting, standing, bending-- literally everything-- sent searing pain through my nether region, making it impossible to function.

Even after my six-week follow up, I was nowhere near close to healed.  

The worst came when I found myself getting dizzy and lightheaded and decided to go back and have a follow-up postpartum Diabetes screening.  It’s standard to get tested immediately after birth while still in the hospital, as Gestational Diabetes almost always disappears entirely as soon as the placenta is delivered.

I opted not to at the time, after the exhaustion and trauma of a fifty-hour long labor left me at low capacity to deal with the stress of another blood test.  But, with my lingering symptoms in postpartum, it became crucial for me to get this test just in case, on the off chance that something was still awry.

Sure enough, after another two-hour Glucose Tolerance Test, my blood sugar was extremely elevated and indicative of full-blown Type 2 Diabetes, which I would be living with for the remainder of my life.

The journey to getting a formal diagnosis was long and grueling, and I will discuss it at great length in another dedicated post.

This brings me back to those ominous TikToks my husband and I would watch, before having a baby was even a consideration for us.  They made me fearful of pregnancy and the permanent effects it can have on a woman’s health.

Even with this knowledge in my mind, I was still completely blindsided by the news that my pregnancy had so drastically altered my health for life.  I will never not be diabetic again.  This condition may have negative effects on my life expectancy, as it is the leading risk factor for cardiovascular disease and stroke, among other serious problems.

I have had to emotionally and physically adjust to life with a chronic illness, as someone who pre-pregnancy, was at extremely low risk.  The medical bills have been overwhelming.  The medical gaslighting and struggle to advocate for myself as someone who doesn’t “look” diabetic has been a journey in itself.

Pregnancy does not always lead to complications such as the one I am dealing with, but it does have permanent effects on the body, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.  When a woman becomes pregnant, she dedicates her body to the creation of a new person, which is a major sacrifice.

It should never be written off as anything less than a profound blessing to humanity, but at great personal forfeit-- something that sadly, many women are naive to before they live this experience.  From the moment we conceive, we are devoted to our babies in the most critical way possible-- a gift and curse of motherhood.